Then Daniel got sick.
At first it was small things. He came home exhausted every day. He started falling asleep on the couch before dinner. Sometimes he’d wake up with headaches so bad he could barely stand.
We blamed stress. Work. Age.
Then the doctor called.
I still remember the nephrologist’s office like a photograph burned into my brain. Posters of kidneys on the wall. A plastic model on the desk. Daniel tapping his foot so fast the chair squeaked.
The doctor didn’t waste time.
“Your kidneys are failing,” he said calmly. “And it’s progressing quickly.”
I felt like the air disappeared from the room.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Dialysis,” he said. “Or a transplant.”
The word hit me like a brick.
“Transplant?” I repeated.
He nodded.
“Sometimes spouses are compatible donors.”
I didn’t even look at Daniel.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Daniel turned to me immediately.
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